


Lord, What Fools

by Calais_Reno



Category: Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Falling In Love, John is Perfect, M/M, Shakespeare Quotations, sherlock being an arse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 14:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16120556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: One night of madness is not going to make England fall. But it may bring together a consulting arse and an irresistible army doctor.





	Lord, What Fools

_Shall we their fond pageant see?_

_Lord, what fools these mortals be!_

— Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ Act III, Scene 2

 

“Mike! Mike!”

I turned and saw Kiera running down the hall after me. Ah, yes. Her date with Steve was last night. The smile on her face already spelled out how it had gone. Nevertheless, I would ask.

I put on my most cherubic smile. “Well? How’d it go?”

“Oh, Mike — I think he’s the one!” She beamed. “When I first saw him, I knew there was something different about Steve. He’s just so — so —” She sighed.

Love does that to people. Makes them speechless, even stupid. Steve was a decent guy, though, and I was fairly sure I hadn’t bungled it. He and Kiera had clicked the moment I introduced them.

I get a lot of wedding invitations. They come addressed to Michael C Stamford, or Michael E Stamford, and sometimes even Michael P Stamford. Call me Cupid or Eros, I’m the bloke that handles the logistics of love. When things break, they usually call me Puck.

Things get pucked up every now and then.

That doesn’t happen often, though. People do break up, sometimes messily, but most of the time I can’t take the blame for that. Left to their own hormones and devices, people usually don’t do so badly at picking a mate, but there are exceptions. I can’t be everywhere all at once, so I try to focus on the hard cases.

Like Molly Hooper. Nice girl. Pretty, even. No major physical deformities, at least. Very sweet, shy… well, I suppose that’s her problem. She’s the kind of girl you don’t really notice. I’ve seen her standing at the counter of a cafe, ignored by the staff, while others push their way ahead of her, as if she were invisible. I had lunch with her once, and the waiter forgot her order. Never came back until he brought me the dessert menu. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

And the dates! Lots of first dates, not so many second dates. Clearly, she was not attracted to the right kind of men— which is exactly the kind of situation where I can make myself useful. I decided to fix her up with a nice, quiet fellow from accounting. A bit nerdy, but good-looking. Nothing to be ashamed of, I mean. I could envision them hitting it off.

I mixed up a dose of juice. People often ask me what’s in it, but that’s a patented secret. All I can say is that it’s made from a rare flower — so rare that it can only be found growing in certain parts of Greece at certain times of the year, which gives me an excuse for an annual holiday in the Greek Isles. Other than that, my lips are sealed. The process is classified. After I stopped using arrows, I used to squeeze it on victims’ eyelids when they were asleep, but these days, you can get arrested for sneaking into people’s homes after hours. And the results were not good. Quite unpredictable. A lot of people were waking up, turning on the telly, and falling in love with the morning anchor. Good for ratings, but not so good for true love.

Now my usual method is putting it in coffee.

Keep in mind: love isn’t science, despite what all the dating sites claim. They use surveys and questionnaires — making it seem as if they can deliver your perfect match the way you’d order a wedding cake or a bespoke suit. I’m more of an artist. Love can’t be quantified, and it doesn’t always make sense. I see potential and help it along.

So I’d corralled my prey, Neil from Accounting, given him a cup of coffee, and walked him down to the Path lab. I was holding another cup for Molly. I opened the door to the lab, greeted Molly and handed her the cup.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said, taking a sip.

I turned to see what had become of her intended mate, and realised that he was talking to Sierra from Admitting. _No, no, no!_ She was entirely wrong for Neil. Lots of commitment issues. Too much eye shadow. But it was, alas, too late. They were already smiling and chatting. Six weeks, I calculated, and she’d have broken his heart.

Inside the lab was the second factor I hadn’t accounted for: Sherlock Holmes.

Molly was staring at him with an expression of wonder on her face. Her eyes might have become little sparkly hearts. It was awful.

Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He was frowning at his phone. “I’ll need fingers, Molly. Especially thumbs. See what you can do.” Without even a goodbye, he swooshed out of the room.

That’s right. Sherlock doesn’t leave a room or enter a room. Nothing so mundane. He swooshes. And in spite of his dramatic collar and his amazing cheekbones and his adorable floppy curls and his verdigris eyes, people avoid him. I admit that I have seen a few women flirt shamelessly, just to get close enough to run their fingers through those curls, but they always walk away with a look of horror. He is impervious to love. And it’s just as well.

Aphrodite once said he wasn’t human. “A machine!” she said. “No emotions!”

I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a machine, but he’s not a people person, which is somewhat of a prerequisite for falling in love. He possesses anti-charisma, counter-charm. His insults are sharper and more precisely aimed than my arrows, and hurt a lot more. He is the anti-Cupid.

The mess I’d created was not easily fixed. Here was sweet Molly, pining away for a man who viewed all women and most men with contempt. It’s a bit dangerous to keep dosing people with the juice. Lovesickness, an addiction to love itself, is the result. We all know people who gush about everything and everybody. “I love gelato! I love yoga! I love that guy in the Vodafone ads!” That can happen when a person has too many doses of the juice too closely spaced. It builds up and takes on a life of its own.

So I had to be careful. Molly was already a bit lovesick. She loved cats and cardigans and anything fluffy and pink. Not what you’d expect from someone who worked in a morgue, but she was, apparently, born to love all things small and cute. 

Unfortunately, she now loved Sherlock Holmes, tall and sullen, and that would destroy her. Indeed, she became quite obsessed with him, unable to make a sensible utterance in his presence, which made him even more disdainful. She began to horde body parts and dole them out to him at strategic moments, like a cat leaving small, dead rodents for her owner. _Please love me,_ her eyes said _._ I had to save her, I decided. It was my professional responsibility not to let her suffer.

A plan occurred to me as I waited in line for coffee one day. I’d spied an old friend.

“John Watson!”

I knew John from his days at Bart’s. He’d dated around a bit, but never became serious about anyone. Nice looking in an ordinary, boy-next-door sort of way. A decent bloke, not overly-complicated or insensitive. Small and cute.

He was limping, using a cane. When he shook my hand, I could feel a desperate sadness radiating from him. I was certain that Molly would want to take care of him, and that this could be the start of something beautiful.

I quickly got his details. Back from Afghanistan a couple months, wounded in the shoulder; shrugged when I asked about the cane. He was here for a checkup on his shoulder wound, which had limited his mobility so much that he was not sure he could continue his surgical career. Living on a half pension for a few months more until he might qualify to return to the service. He had a small flat in London, he said, but couldn’t really afford it.

As it happened, I knew that Molly was looking for a flatmate. The woman she’d shared the flat with had gotten married (as had the previous four flatmates), leaving Molly with the lease and another bridesmaid dress to add to her closet. I wasn’t sure how she would feel about sharing space with a man, but I knew how the flat was laid out — two bedrooms, each with an attached bath, on opposite sides of the kitchen and living area. Some privacy, potential intimacy. It could work, I thought. Good for both of them.

I bought John a cup of coffee and one to deliver to Molly. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” I said, steering him towards the lift. Having learned from my previous error, I did not add juice to his cup until we were at the door of the lab. That required a momentary distraction — _oh, look! Was that the Queen? — no, never mind…_ He didn’t notice, took a sip as we entered the lab.

“Molly,” I said. She had her back to the door. I held out the juiced coffee. “There’s somebody—”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock Bloody Holmes was looking up from his microscope, staring right into the eyes of John Watson.

“Thanks, Mike,” said Molly, smiling and taking the coffee. “Who’s this?” She took a sip before I could think what to do.

I grabbed John’s shoulders and turned him towards Molly. “John Watson, this is Molly Hooper.”

Eye contact lasted only a second or two. John smiled politely and held out his hand. She smiled back. “So nice to meet you.” She continued to stare into his eyes, little sparkles beginning to dance around in her irises.

John turned back to Sherlock, who was now looking at something on a slide. “Afghanistan,” he said. “That’s amazing! How did you know that?”

* * *

“Well met, Robin Goodfellow.” Aphrodite gave me an appraising stare as I entered her salon. “You’ve become quite a tub of lard, haven’t you, Puck?”

“You’re looking lovely, Mother,” I said. We exchanged air kisses. “Nobody likes a skinny Cupid, you know. Maybe you could recommend a personal trainer.”

She shrugged, having already lost interest in my weight battle. “You should hang out at the gym more. That’s where people fall in love.”

“I need your advice.”

“You mean that you botched things up,” she said, smirking. “Let’s step into my office.” The _office_ was actually a supply room in the back of her beauty shop. I squeezed my bulk between crates of conditioner and styling gel and hair extensions, and looked at the small, aluminium chair with concern. Holding my breath, I eased myself into the chair. When it did not collapse, I resumed breathing. As concisely as I could, I laid out the problem for her.

“Let me get this straight,” Aphrodite said, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder. Today she looked like Beyonce. “The girl was in love with the detective, but now she’s in love with the army bloke, who’s in love with the detective. And the detective isn’t in love with anyone.”

I nodded. “That’s where we stand.”

“That’s where _you_ stand,” she said, examining her perfectly manicured, fuschia-lacquered nails. “You’re Logistics, not me. I’m Love. I’m Beauty.” She gestured to the shelves of beauty products surrounding us. “So how are you planning to fix this mess?”

“I’ve been thinking about John,” I said. “He’s already a bit depressed, so I don’t want to give him another shot of juice. And he has PTSD to boot. Not sure what the juice might do with that. He might take hostages, barricade himself inside a post office. I’m thinking I’ll wait a couple weeks and try working on Molly again.”

“Forget the girl. Holmes is the problem. If he’d just fallen for the girl when when you juiced her the first time, none of this would have happened. But they’re not getting together. Those two would be a disaster, as you would have realised if you’d been paying the tiniest bit of attention. You need to fix Holmes. Get him to fall in love with Watson.”

“That’s not going to work. First of all, John Watson is not gay.”

“He’s in love with a man,” Aphrodite pointed out. “That wouldn’t have happened if his slider hadn’t been set in the middle to begin with. If he were completely straight, they would simply have become bros, started hanging out in pubs and going to football matches. Now, there’s no hope of that. You have to make Sherlock fall in love with him.”

“I’ve tried. He’s impervious.”

“You know who his brother is, don’t you?”

I sighed. “Of course. He’s a demigod. Runs the British government. But Sherlock’s not—”

“Go talk to Big Brother. If you don’t, I guarantee you there will be trouble.”

* * *

Mycroft Holmes and I had never actually met. I went to his club, the Diogenes, and had a minion take him my card. Within five minutes, I was summoned to the Strangers Room. This was not an insult; it was the only place in the club where two people could have a conversation. Outside of this room, talking is forbidden. But the minion’s face told me that if there were a room where it would have been an actual insult for us to meet, Mycroft would have had us meet there. He might have refused to meet with me entirely, though, so I understood that he was disturbed by some aspect of the situation. This gave me a slight advantage, I thought.

He looked down at me as if from a great height, even though we were only looking at one another across a small tea table. Arrogant arsehole. He was merely a demigod, son of a second-generation Titaness, while I was a full deity, the son of two Olympian gods. The look on his face told me that the pleasure of my acquaintance might have been indefinitely postponed, as far as he was concerned.

“What in heaven’s name are you trying to do?” he said irritably.

“My job,” I said. “Matching people up, making them fall in love, all the good stuff.”

“Leave my brother out of your _stuff_ ,” he said severely.

“I wasn’t trying to include him. He just keeps getting in the way.” I decided to shift tactics. “And what would be so terrible about him falling in love with someone? Love makes the world go around, you know.”

He frowned. “I believe the rotation of the earth is actually a vestige of the angular momentum of the coalescing solar system.”

“Yes, of course. That, too. And Love is good for humans. All you need is Love, am I right? It makes them reproduce, propagation of the species and all that. Carnal knowledge. Funny business. Jiggery-pokery. Rumpy-pumpy.”

His face took on a look of disgust. “Ghastly. I’m not sure what Prometheus was thinking. Should have gone with asexual reproduction, I’ve always said.”

“Hm. Like bacteria?” I asked. “Never mind. As to your brother — I know you demigods are not averse to _venery_ with humans. Look at all the heroes that have been produced in this way.”

“He’s not a demigod,” he huffed, very annoyed now. “Or a hero. He is a human.”

“Oh. I wasn’t aware. Then what’s his problem? Why is he unresponsive to my juice? If he’s human, why does he turn down every human I’ve sent in his direction?”

The demigod sneered. “My brother may not be divine, but he has divine gifts. In order to utilise his intellect properly, I have kept Love out of his life. He has no desire, which is why your _juice_ has no effect on him. He is immune to Love.”

“Why not give him a choice? Are you afraid of what might happen if he discovers Love?”

“Love makes humans stupid. My brother cannot afford stupidity. He has only one lifetime to make his mark in the world. If he does, perhaps we can deify him, like Hercules.”

“What does your mother think about him?”

“Metis? She has more important things to think about than humans and their revolting urges.”

“And yet,” I said, knowing that I was pushing the envelope, “she fell in love with a human man, your father —and his.”

He looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. “A mistake she would gladly undo, if she could. That was Aphrodite’s fault. You two, with your constant meddling, have kept the human race in a state of unending chaos and confusion. If you would leave off, people might settle down and finally solve some problems.”

“It’s a lonely world you imagine, Mr Holmes,” I said. “People sitting by themselves, thinking and solving problems, but never enjoying themselves. Never laughing together or feeling compassion or joy or — or anything. Life is not meant to be a puzzle. It’s not meant to be calm and rational. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”

“Leave my brother alone,” he said sternly. “If you do not, I will have to speak to your father.”

I had not spoken to Ares in years. Our last conversation had gone badly when he expressed his disappointment in my decision to follow my mother into the business of Love. “Make Love, not War,” I told him. That was during the sixties, when I was part of the counter-culture.As we used to say, _War is not healthy for children and other living things._

His response had been to start a series of wars. I supposed that he and Mycroft Holmes had a lot in common.

I took my leave.

* * *

The pub I owned was right around the corner from Bart’s hospital. The Bird and Bee, I called it. I’d been a doctor for years, but found that I enjoyed bartending much more these days. People don’t check into a hospital hoping to find the love of their life. A pub is where they go.

After my conversation with Mycroft, I left off trying to fix Molly and John and Sherlock. People always says that time heals all wounds, even the ones I cause, so I decided to let things settle a bit. And I had no ready solution.

Greg Lestrade came in one night when his shift ended — alone. I knew he’d been trying to reconcile with his wife, who was having an affair. That one wasn’t my fault. From the beginning, it had been all wrong. Three children later, it had gone off the deep end. But I was sympathetic, so I listened.

“I told Sherlock I was getting back together with her, and he tells me that she’s having an affair with Tommy’s coach.”

“You believe him?” I asked.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “He’s Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He can tell you shite like that and say he figured it out from the way you parted your hair that morning, or the mustard stain on your cuff, and you think it’s barmy — but he’s always right.”

“How is Sherlock these days?”

“Still a prat. You know, he’s found himself a flatmate now. Said he needed somebody to share the rent. Decent bloke. Retired army doctor.”

“Yes, I know him. John Watson.”

Lestrade nodded. “Poor sod. I think he’s just figured out what a huge mistake he’s made.”

“Mistake? How so?”

“Sherlock treats him like a bloody slave. Always ordering him about, insulting his intelligence. _Get my phone, Watson,_ he says. And it’s in his pocket. _Quiet, Watson, you’re thinking too loud._ I heard him say yesterday, _Watson is perfect. Any deductions he makes always turn out to be dead wrong. He’s a perfect barometer of miscalculation, a compass that always points southeast. Saves me a lot of time._ Can you believe that?”

“Well, we all know Sherlock isn’t good with people,” I said. This was a gross understatement. “But John’s no idiot and he’s no coward. I’m sure he’ll put him straight.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I don’t know. The poor sod just stands there and takes it. I said to him, _Why do you let him abuse you like that?_ And he just gets this sad look and sighs. _Well, that’s the way he is,_ he says. It’s pathetic.”

I digested this. The John I knew was a quiet man, but never shy. He’d been a Captain in the army, and pretty bad-ass from what I’d heard. They don’t put wimps in charge of people with guns. If John wasn’t standing up to Sherlock, it could only mean one thing: he was so smitten that he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

* * *

The following day, John limped into my pub. I think he was surprised to see me behind the bar. When we were students, I was normally found on a stool in front of the bar with a pint in my hand.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing this for a while,” I said, pouring him a scotch on the rocks. “I enjoy it a lot more than teaching anatomy.”

“That’s good,” he said absently. “Good on you.” 

“How are you getting on with your flatmate?” I asked.

He was silent for a few seconds. “He’s… temperamental.”

I made an sympathetic sound. “That can be hard.”

“When I first saw him,” he began, then hesitated.

I leaned in. “You felt something?”

He nodded. “I’m not a person who has… intuitions like that. But I just felt like I’d found something I’d been missing. I’ve dated a lot of women over the years. Christ, I’ve never even thought about… well, he’s a bloke, obviously. I’m not gay.” He looked up from his drink. “God, Mike. It was like it hit me, right then, that this was the person I’m meant to spend my life with. I can’t even explain it. I can’t stop…” Avoiding my eyes, he lowered his voice. “I think I’m in love with him.”

“It’s fine if you’re gay, John.” I decided that this was the easiest part of the problem to tackle. “People love whom they love. Nothing wrong with it.”

“I know,” said John. “It’s all fine. I just… never saw it coming.”

“How does he feel about it?” I already knew the answer. I just needed to see if he knew it.

He shook his head. “He doesn’t have those feelings. Doesn’t want relationships. _Married to my work,_ he says _. Alone protects me.”_

“Does he treat you well?”

He smiled bitterly. “He doesn’t treat anybody well. Why should I be any different?” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I’m just afraid… He finds me so transparent. What happens when he deduces how I feel? Lestrade’s people keep telling me he’s a sociopath.”

“Maybe he’s afraid, too,” I said. “Maybe he just doesn’t know how to even identify what he feels. Don’t let him bully you, John. You might be exactly what he needs. You’ll be doing him a favour if you stop him from pushing people around — including you.”

I had little hope of that happening.

* * *

I stopped by Bart’s the following morning to check on Molly. The news here was bad as well.

“I gave John my phone number,” she said, wringing her hands a bit nervously. “I don’t know. Maybe that was stupid. Men don’t like women who are forward.”

“This isn’t the Victorian Era,” I told her. “Give him a call.”

“He didn’t give me his number,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure he lost mine. He doesn’t even notice me. Yesterday he called me Maggie.” Her lips trembled. “Why can’t I find a decent man, Mike? I have five bridesmaid’s dresses hanging in my closet, all of them a result of introducing my flatmate to the man I was dating. The only man I’ve liked who didn’t marry one of my flatmates is Sherlock, and I don’t think he likes women.”

“You mean, he’s gay?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was getting better at spotting gay men. I didn’t think John was gay, either, but now I’m not sure. He and Sherlock were up here the other day, looking for thumbs, and John was just looking at him like… like I used to. He seems miserable. And Sherlock is so mean to him. I don’t know what I ever saw in that man, and now it’s killing me that John is infatuated with him. I just want to shake him, to tell him Sherlock’s not worth it.” She sighed. “John is so sweet, and decent, and funny, and…”

“Handsome?” I suggested. John is average, as far as looks go. His best qualities are sweet and decent and funny. The only woman who would call him _handsome_ is a woman in love with him.

“Yeah.” She sighed a bit dreamily. “He’s perfect. But he doesn’t even look at me.”

Another perfect match ruined by Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

It was time for me to pay another visit to my mother.

“This is not sorting itself out,” I said. “Molly is still pathetically infatuated with John. And John is letting Sherlock emotionally abuse him. And Sherlock is still an arrogant prick. And Mycroft said he’d tell Daddy if I mess with Sherlock.”

Aphrodite got a look on her face, a sort of half-sweet, half-evil smile. “I can handle your father. Besides, he’s got forty-three wars going on right now. He's not paying any attention to demigods, even those running the British government.

“What can I do?” I asked. “I’ve juiced Sherlock twice, and it has no effect. Except I think now he loves Chocolate Hob-Nobs more than ever.”

“It’s time for me to pay him a visit,” she said. “I can’t go as myself, though. I’ll have to create the perfect woman, the one he’d drop everything for.”

I shook my head. “He’s asexual. Even you won’t be able to seduce him.”

“I’m not going to seduce him, Mikey. I just need to get his attention, make him forget all that nonsense his brother’s been feeding him.”

“And once you’ve got his attention, then what?”

She shrugged. “Logistics are your area. The girl or the doctor. Your choice. Redhead or brunette?”

She changed her long blond hair first to a coppery auburn, then bright red, then mahogany, and finally glossy chestnut.

“A little darker, I think,” I said. “And put it up — a bit of sophisticated control would look ravishing.”

She swept it into a loose chignon. Then she turned to me, her eyes brightened and her cheeks slightly flushed. “How do I look?”

“Captivating. What will you wear?”

She smiled. “Perhaps nothing. I think I’ll call myself _Irene._ ”

* * *

Aphrodite didn’t share her plan. Nor would she let me accompany her. I didn’t blame her, but I would have enjoyed seeing how she worked her little game.

Late the following afternoon, she came into the bar. She looked a bit scary, hair bright red and spiked, her eyes outlined in the darkest kohl, her generous proportions sheathed in a tiny magenta dress.

“Tell me everything,” I said.

Sliding onto a bar stool, she pursed her fluorescent lips into a sneer. “ _Not my area._ ”

“Not your area?”

Her spikes burst into artificial flames, an interesting effect I hadn’t seen before. “That’s what he said to me! Love doesn't interest him. Idiot.”

I placed a cocktail of my own making in front of her, a pink, sparkly drink which I called _Love-in-Idleness_. “What do you suppose he meant?”

She took a swallow; her flames turned into pink corkscrew curls. “What could he mean? That fool looked upon my naked form and shrugged. Artemis turned men into stags for less than that — and then set the hounds on them.”

“Artemis was mad because of the looking,” I reminded her. “I don’t think there was any shrugging. But even Artemis fell in love once.”

“Orion,” she said, nodding. “But he was gay. They never…” She sipped her drink, less angry now, but still miffed. “I should have turned Holmes into… hm. Not a stag…”

“Maybe a cat,” I suggested. “Then Molly could adopt him. She takes pictures of her kitties wearing little hats. That would serve him right.”

Aphrodite did not crack a smile. “What is wrong with Sherlock Holmes? Who the bloody hell does he think he is, turning down Love? It’s sacrilegious.”

“Maybe he just meant that women don’t interest him.”

“Do you think so?” She looked skeptical, but a bit less dejected.

“Of course,” I said, refilling her drink. “But we still need to do something about him. It won’t do for him to go around saying that the Goddess of Love and Beauty wasn’t fit enough to draw his attention.”

“Or boasting that he outsmarted Cupid,” she added. “Loose lips sink ships. And mine is not the only boat in the water, my dear son. Do you have any ideas at all?”

I gave a quiet chuckle. “I do. I’ll need your help.”

She returned my smile. “Tell me.”

“Humans often say that _absence makes the heart grow fonder._ ” I allowed this to sink in.

“I’ve seen it backfire as well,” she said. “ _Out of sight, out of mind._ ”

“They did a study,” I replied testily. “It’s true. An American newspaper did a—”

“The idea,” she said. “Tell me.”

“Simple. We’ll kidnap John Watson.”

She snorted. “That plot practically writes itself.”

* * *

Aphrodite volunteered to do the kidnapping. She would wait outside the flat at Baker Street for John to return from his clinic shift.

“How should I approach him?” She was wearing a black catsuit. “What do kidnappers usually do?”

“Do that thing you always do, where you look sultry and shake your hair back in slow motion and move your hips sensuously while everything in the background fades and music swells—”

She pouted. “I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do. And you don’t need to look like a burglar. You’re kidnapping, not burgling,” I pointed out. “And it’s Midsummer Eve, so the sun won’t set until half nine. People won't be wearing black from head to toe. You'll stand out.”

“I cannot help standing out.” She frowned at me. “I am what I am, and right now I am a very sexy burglar.”

“Kidnapper,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “What about you? You look like a pudgy used car salesman.”

“People are not afraid to approach me,” I replied. “I look harmless and genial. Everybody’s friend and confessor.”

“What are you going to be doing while I’m kidnapping the little doctor?”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on Sherlock.”

“He probably won’t even notice that Watson is gone,” she said.

I chuckled. “He’ll notice. Besides, I have a special enchantment planned for him.”

* * *

An hour later, I received a text.

_\- Target incapacitated. — A_

_\- Where will you take him? — Puck_

_\- Enchanted bower in the park. — A_

_\- Keep him there until I tell you otherwise. — Puck_

* * *

I thought I’d give Sherlock an hour before I went calling. If he hadn’t noticed by then, I’d pretend I’d come looking for John and play it by _ear_. If he wasn’t interested, I would resort to the special enchantment. It was something I’d tried before on a few occasions, and I was rather hoping I’d get a chance to use it on Sherlock, who was above all else, an _arse_.

He surprised me, swooping into the bar no more than 25 minutes after Aphrodite’s text. Because it was midsummer, he wasn’t wearing his Belstaff coat, but he’d popped his shirt collar nonetheless. His curls looked frizzy, like he’d forgotten to use product. He seemed a bit wild.

“Is John here?” he asked. “Have you seen him?”

“Sorry, mate,” I replied. “I haven’t. Is he missing?”

“He went to Tesco to get milk. That was over an hour ago.”

“Maybe the line was long and he’s still there.”

“I checked. He never made it there.”

“Maybe he bumped into a friend and stopped for a drink.”

“He has friends?” He looked skeptical.

“Yes, John has friends. Occasionally he comes here and drinks with them.”

“Well, he’s not here now, is he?” Sherlock growled.

“Maybe your brother kidnapped him.”

He pulled out his phone and began tapping a message. A second later, a reply buzzed. “Damn,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Mycroft just sent me the security footage. He’s been kidnapped by Cat Woman.”

I looked at the footage. There was Aphrodite doing her sexy, slow-motion hip wiggle, and John being led away like a lamb, his eyes glued to her lovely derrière.

“What is he playing at?” Sherlock growled.

“Looks like he’s got a date,” I said.

“Why a woman?” Sherlock muttered to himself. “He has me.”

I didn’t know what to say to this.

“Stop gaping, man,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go find him!”

In this way, the plot began writing itself.

* * *

I left the bar in charge of a wood nymph named Poppy, who would probably start giving out free drinks if I wasn’t back in a couple hours because she didn’t know how to work the register. _Fine_ , I thought. _Free booze is good for business_. Both kinds of business: love and money.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I scuttled after Holmes, struggling to keep up with his long strides. We hadn’t reached the end of the block and I was already perspiring and panting.

“Clearly, we’re heading to the park. That’s where the CCTV showed them going.”

“Why are you so upset?” I asked. I was a little surprised at how focused he was on solving the Mystery of the Missing Flatmate. “Why not just wait for him at the flat? He lives there; surely he’ll come back eventually.”

“I can’t think,” he said. “Normally I just talk to the skull when he’s out, but from time to time I need an actual person to say idiotic things to me.”

“I can say idiotic things.”

He gave me a look full of pity. “You are not Watson. The level of brilliant idiocy that he has attained is divine.”

“I’m divine,” I said. Because I am.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Irrelevant. Sentiment is your area, which automatically puts you on the losing side.”

“Losing side?” I scoffed. We were entering the park now. _Time to get down and dirty_. “Sherlock Holmes, you are an absolute arse.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He gave a short laugh. “I’ve been insulted by demigods that make you look like a mortal. They put your picture on Valentine cards, Stamford! You’re a chubby baby with a toy bow and arrow.”

“School children cry if they don’t receive my likeness on February 14,” I said stiffly. “It sounds like _somebody_ didn’t get any Valentines this year.”

I smiled, seeing my enchantment had begun to work. A lovely, long set of ass ears had sprouted from the top of Sherlock Holmes’ head. It would not serve any purpose, I knew, other than to amuse me as long as I had to subject myself to his arrogance. But they might help put him in his place. Nothing like a set of ass ears to show one’s foolishness to the world.

He didn’t notice. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“Love is not the losing side,” I said. “Perhaps someone is testy because his love just ran off with Cat Woman.”

“I’m not testy,” he growled. “And he’s not my love.” He mumbled this last part. Fortunately for him, the transformation seemed to have stopped before his entire head became that of an ass. He still had his sexy cheekbones and his lovely Cupid’s Bow mouth. And a lovely, velvety set of ass ears.

“What did you say?” I taunted him. “Did you just mention Love?”

“I am _not_ in love,” he said slowly and deliberately.

“How would you know?”

At that moment we encountered a familiar figure on the path.

“Molly!” I called out. She was standing in the middle of the path, holding a box of catnip and a sparkly collar. “What’s wrong?”

“I lost Tinkerbell,” she said. “That’s my ginger cat. He ran out when I opened the door for the cable man.” She looked at Sherlock and frowned. “Are you all right, Sherlock? Your ears…”

“I am fine,” he responded, scanning the path ahead of us. His ears swivelled like satellite dishes. “My hearing seems to be more acute than usual.”

“We’re looking for John,” I explained. “Sherlock’s worried.”

“What happened to him?”

“Kidnapped,” said Sherlock. “Most inconvenient.”

Molly gave me a wide-eyed look. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to be kidnapped.”

“Nevertheless,” said the detective. “He is gone.”

We walked together, Sherlock stalking irritably between me and Molly.

My phone buzzed. 

* * *

_\- Where r u? — A_

I stopped on the path. “You two go on ahead,” I said. “Just gotta send this.”

_\- In the park with Holmes. — Puck_

_\- How is Watson? — Puck_

_\- Lovely. — A_

_Picture: Watson, sound asleep; my mother wrapped around him._

_\- Don’t forget why you’re doing this. — Puck_

_\- Why am I doing this? — A_

_\- Behave yourself. — Puck_

* * *

I trotted ahead to join the others on the path, and found that they had run into Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan.

“Weird for a Monday evening,” Lestrade was saying. “People are nuts tonight.”

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Somebody called in, said people are running around naked in Regent’s Park.”

Sherlock stopped, closed his eyes, focused. “I can hear people giggling.”

Lestrade was staring at his ears. “Is this some new thing?”

“No,” Sherlock sighed. “People giggle all the time, for no apparent reason. It’s quite annoying.”

“Freak,” said Donovan. “ _You’re_ annoying.”

“Have you seen any cats?” Molly asked.

“Cats? Well, no,” said Lestrade. “We haven’t actually been looking for cats, though.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, his ears leaning towards the east. “I can hear cats yowling. A cat fight, perhaps.” He pointed into the brush. “That direction.”

“Tinkerbell!” cried Molly. “He’s being attacked!”

“You named a tom cat _Tinkerbell_?” Sherlock asked.

Greg glared at Sherlock and took Molly’s hand. “Come on, I’ll help you find him.” He nodded at Sally. “Donovan, continue patrolling the park. I’ll catch up with you.”

“What are you freaks doing here?” Donovan said.

Sherlock frowned at her. “Looking for Watson.”

“Why? Did he finally run away from home?”

“He’s been kidnapped,” Sherlock replied.

“Aww,” said Sally. “Is your widdle boyfwend missing?”

Sherlock stopped on the path, his ears pink and erect. “Don’t _ever_ call my Watson _little._ ”

“Seriously, Sherlock,” she said. “Do you just keep him around so that you can look _tall_? Because some days, _tall_ is all you have going for you.”

“Why do you attach value to height?” Sherlock asked. “Do you think you are better because you are three-quarters of an inch taller than Watson?”

She shrugged. “No, I think I’m better because I don’t have a psychopathic boyfriend. And I think you keep him around because he’s in love with you. Poor sod.”

Sherlock stopped again. Turning, he stared at Donovan. “What did you say?”

“He’s in love with you,” she repeated. “In LOVE. Are you so dense that you haven’t noticed, you arse? Christ, what kind of detective are you?”

The detective fell silent. His ears began to lose their erectness.

Donovan’s radio crackled. “East entrance,” a voice said. “Naked people.” She took off at a run.

Sherlock turned, a look of confusion on his face. “Is it true?”

“Yes. You are, in fact, an arse,” I replied. “And an ass as well.”

He continued to look puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

I felt an aura hovering nearby. Judging by Sherlock’s deflated ears, he was still puzzling over Donovan’s words.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I told him. “I’ll be back in a flash.” Before Sherlock could respond, I crashed through the bushes, following the scent of Love.

Bursting into the hidden bower, I found Aphrodite stroking Watson’s well-defined bicep and nibbling on his ear.

“Mother!” I said. “You’re not supposed to be making love to him!”

“He passed out after one drink,” she said. “I’m just making sure he’s still… um… responsive.”

John Watson did not look responsive. He looked very peaceful —and unusually attractive.

“What did you give him?”

She had the decency to look a bit guilty. “I might have slipped something into his drink. Just trying to cheer him up.”

“Potions and spells are my area, Mother. We agreed! I’m Logistics! I’m Strategy! You’re always saying that, but—”

“You’re so grumpy.” She ran her fingers through John’s hair, almost purring. “Isn’t he adorable?”

I noted the sparkles in his hair. “Oh, Mother,” I said. “You didn’t.”

She pouted. “Just trying to even the odds. The only weapons in John’s arsenal are _small_ and _cute_. Against the horror that is Holmes, it's like bringing a cream pie to a gunfight.”

“So you’ve made him irresistible,” I said. “Which means everyone will fall in love with him. How will that help?”

She smirked. “Jealousy. One of the best tools in my kit.”

“Not necessary. Sherlock is already upset that he’s missing.” Something occurred to me. “Why are there naked people running around the park?”

She smiled. “It’s Midsummer’s Eve. Love is in the air.”

“This was supposed to be a simple kidnapping,” I said.

“One night of madness is not going to make England fall.”

* * *

When I went back to look for Holmes, he was gone.

“Sherlock!” I called. “I know you can hear me!”

I heard a radio squawk and Donovan came through the bushes. “Do you know what’s going on here?” she asked me indignantly. “Do you see what’s happening?”

“Naked people?” I suggested.

She sighed and switched off the radio. “I hate my life. I’m supposed to be arresting people for public indecency, and I feel like a rowboat in a tsunami.”

“A bit crazy out here,” I agreed.

She stopped walking and glared at me. “Why me? Just tell me that, Mike Stamford.”

“I see. Anderson has gone back to his wife, I presume.”

“People falling in love on all sides,” she groaned. “Chubby little bastard and his arrows… But never me! Why?”

Before I could answer this question, Lestrade and Molly wandered onto the path a few feet ahead of us. He held a cat in one arm; his other arm was around Molly’s shoulder. They were staring stupidly at one another.

“Do you see?” Donovan groaned. “Everyone!”

I confess, I hadn’t given Sally much thought up until then, what with Molly and John and Sherlock and Greg. Anderson was not right for her, too much of a coward to leave his wife. Whatever arrow had hit him must have been twisted; he had to be unfaithful to the women who loved him.

“Forget Anderson,” I said. “Come by for a drink after work tomorrow. I’ll give it some thought.”

“I know I’m abrasive,” she was saying. “But Sherlock’s a sociopath and he’s got John. Why does he get to be happy? Why can’t I have a John Watson?”

One thing I was certain of was that I couldn’t have any more people falling in love with John Watson. Molly seemed to have turned her sights on Lestrade, so that might have solved itself. But as soon as John came out of that bower, all covered in sparkly irresistibility, people would be all over him. I wasn’t sure how long the sparkles would last, but I couldn’t take any chances. I had to find Sherlock and bring him to John before the potion waned.

“Men are idiots,” Sally muttered. “All of them.”

Striding down the path towards us was the idiot who called himself Mycroft Holmes, followed by the minor deity known as Anthea, who was looking at her mobile phone.

“What have you done to my brother?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” I lied.

“Found him,” said Anthea. She held up her mobile so Mycroft could see. His face, already fixed in a sneer, became sneerier.

“What is this? You’ve given him ass ears?”

I shrugged. “He deserved it. Being an arse, an ass, and a bloody idiot.”

“All men are idiots,” Donovan added. “You need to give ass ears to every one of them.”

“Holmes men are not idiots,” Mycroft sneered. “Remove the ears at once.”

“It has to wear off, I’m afraid.” I wondered how Mycroft would look with ass ears.

“Where is he?” He turned to Anthea. “We need to get him out of here before he embarrasses me. Can you track him?”

Anthea had not taken her eyes off the mobile. “Yes, sir. He’s just west of here.”

Ordinarily I do not cast spells on demigods, but minor deities and their devices are fair game. I wasn’t sure what Anthea’s area was, but she quite suddenly lost all sense of direction. That sometimes happens when people fall in love. They just wander aimlessly.

Anthea headed southeast. Mycroft gave me a menacing look and followed her. I thought about ass ears, but restrained myself.

Well, maybe an ass tail.

* * *

Sally and I walked on. Mentally, I was juggling two problems, two solutions. First, find Sherlock and bring him to the bower. Second, find someone for Sally. Love was in the air, too good to waste on one-night stands and idiots. I felt sorry for ignoring her for so long. It was puzzling how such an attractive woman could be overlooked by so many men. Perhaps she was right; we are all idiots.

Sherlock came out of the bushes, his ears drooping. “I can’t find John.”

Sally reached up and petted his ears. “Poor freak. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

Sherlock sighed. “Cat Woman has him. She would be a fool to let him go.”

“Why?” Sally asked.

“Because he’s John. He makes the best tea, and he buys me biscuits and milk and things, and he picks up all the stuff I leave on the floor, and he grumbles about my experiments, but doesn’t make me put them away. He tolerates me.”

Sally snorted. “That’s not love, psycho. If you want him back, you’re going to have to do better than _thank you for tolerating me._ ”

“He’s the only one who does, though.”

“Nice for you, but what do you do for him?”

“I cured his limp.”

She rolled her eyes. “He limps when he thinks you can’t see him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t like to disappoint you. He suppresses the pain. You decided that you’d cured him, and he can’t bear for you to see how much it hurts.”

“His leg hurts?”

“That too.”

Sherlock stopped walking and frowned at her. “You’re always mean to me.”

“I”m not being mean. I’m being honest.”

“So I didn’t cure him?”

Sally stepped towards him. “You could cure him. Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.” He sat down on a bench and rubbed his long ears. “Once I thought I was in love with someone, but he wasn’t in love with me. And Mycroft turned him into a gnome or something. But the point was, and _is_ , that caring is not an advantage. Love is for losers. So I just deleted it from my Mind Palace.”

“Losers?” I laughed. “Says the man with ass ears—”

Sally gave me a hard look. “Maybe you should take a walk, Mike.”

“Sorry. I’ll just be quiet now.”

She sat down next to Holmes. “You can’t delete Love. It’s still there, Sherlock. Stop thinking. Just tell me what you feel.”

“I feel a bit light-headed.”

“What else?”

“A bit queasy. My tummy is tingly.”

“Go on…”

“And I smiled yesterday. The fellow at Speedy’s asked me how John was, and I smiled.”

“That’s my good little psycho.”

“And… and…” He sighed deeply; his ears twitched.”This is embarrassing.”

“It’s okay. I won’t laugh.”

“I feel like… like.. singing.” He hung his head, his ears magenta with embarrassment. “I don’t know what to do.” He turned to Sally, a look of despair on his face. “Am I in Love?”

“Very good, Grasshopper. You haven’t deleted Love. But you’re not fifteen anymore. When you call John an idiot, he doesn’t realise you’re flirting with him.”

“He doesn’t?” Sherlock raised his head. “Then how can I tell him I’m in love with him? Should I punch him?”

“No punching. That’s for twelve-year-olds.”

“Maybe I could write him a poem.”

“That’s better.”

“No, it’s not. I suck at poetry. Poetry ended my first and last relationship.”

Sally stood. “I have a better idea. Let’s go find him.”

* * *

We walked on. I, of course, knew exactly where John was, but wasn’t sure what we would find when we reached the bower.

_\- On our way — Puck_

_\- Please don’t be playing kissy-face when we arrive — Puck_

_\- You’re no fun — Love_

Sherlock appeared to be walking with his eyes closed.

“That’s right,” Sally said. “Follow your heart.”

“Not my heart. My ears,” he replied. “I can hear all sorts of things.” He sighed and opened his eyes. “But I can’t hear John. Why is that? Why can I not hear the person I love most?”

“Because,” said Sally, “you’re not listening with your heart.”

Sherlock frowned. “The heart is not a sensory organ. It is a pump, nothing more.”

“Do you love him?” Sally, hands on her hips, glared at him vehemently. “Do not disappoint me, Sherlock Holmes. You have shown yourself to be a sociopath on numerous occasions. But tonight, for some reason, love has cracked your facade. I can see who you are, Sherlock. You are not a man without a heart, not a sociopath, not an imbecile who cannot recognise love when it is pushing you against a wall and plundering your mouth. You love John Watson! Put those ass ears to good use and find him!”

“I have no data,” he said, resigned.

“Your heart,” she said. “You’re not listening.”

He closed his eyes and was silent. For a long moment Sally and I looked at him. His ears were alert, ready to catch his lover’s voice, even at a distance.

“He is asleep,” Sherlock said at last. “I cannot hear him.”

“Think!” Sally hissed. “Why do you love him?”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “He is my conductor of light.”

At once, we all felt a twinkling, a light not too distant, drawing us.

We rose, following Sherlock.

* * *

We arrived at the bower. Fortunately, Aphrodite had not completely violated John Watson. She was curled around the small doctor, however, and was running her long red nails through his hair.

“Cat Woman!” Sherlock bellowed, his eyes open now. “Unhand my… my… my Watson!”

In a rare show of self control, Aphrodite stopped stroking.

“I am the Goddess of Love,” she said. “Anyone who appeals to me in the name of passion, I will hear. State your case, mortal.”

“I want John back,” Sherlock said. “I love him. At least, that’s what all the data show.”

Aphrodite gave him a terrifying smile. “You will have to do better than that, Sherlock Holmes. Puck’s potion has lost its power, but I have put him under a magical enchantment. As soon as I wake him and let him out of the bower, people will be irresistibly drawn to him. You claim his affections, but I have yet to see evidence that you deserve him. In the interest of avoiding a stampede of suitors, however, I will allow you to defend your claim.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock said. His ass ears twitched nervously.

Sally nudged him encouragingly. “Go on. You can do this.”

He nodded. “I have no resumé of amorous achievements to flaunt. I am a novice to love. Nevertheless, I have found love, and it has changed me. People often comment that John’s life must be interesting and exciting because he lives with me, but it is quite the contrary. My life is interesting because of him. He is a never-ending mystery. He surprises me daily. When I look at him, all I want to do is punch him.” He glanced at Sally. “Or write him a poem.”

Sally hissed. “Grasshopper…”

Sherlock smacked his forehead. “What I mean is, I am not a poet. I do not know how to express my affection for him. Instead of punching him, I meant to write a poem, but I am an emotionally stunted man who doesn’t know what to do with feelings. When he speaks, I want do things to him that I’m not sure are physically possible. No one has ever put up with me before.” He glanced at Sally, seeking support. She nodded approvingly. “It would be no great achievement for most people to fall in love with John. He is loveable and worthy of love. Anyone who does not love him is a fool. For me, however, it is monumental to love him. I have never loved before. I thought love illogical, but now, I see that it is logical to love John Watson. My reactions to him are chemical, and even I, logical as I am, cannot escape chemistry. I cannot live without him. Assign me any ordeal, no matter how demanding or difficult, and I will perform it.”

Aphrodite’s vivid locks relaxed into pink spirals. She narrowed her eyes. “Very well. Here is your ordeal: you must awaken him with a kiss. As I said, the potion no longer makes him love you. It must be his choice now. Kiss him awake, Sherlock, if you can. If he wakes, sees you, and loves you, he is yours.”

Sherlock looked at John, slumbering so peacefully in Aphrodite’s embrace. “And if he sees me and does not…?”

“Then I will release him and allow him to choose his love. There will be many competitors.”

Sherlock’s ears deflated a bit. “Very well,” he said. “I will kiss him.”

Sally came and stood next to me. She gave me a look filled with apprehension. “Does he know how to kiss?” she whispered, taking my hand in hers. “By all the gods, I’m not sure I can watch this.”

I shrugged. I didn’t know if anyone had ever kissed Sherlock Holmes. I wasn’t even sure that his mother would have done that. Mother’s kisses are what first awaken love in the heart of a human, but lover’s kisses possess a special magic of their own. Sherlock did not look like a man who’d ever been awakened, or magicked. I was skeptical, but as always, I hoped for the best. Love is patient; perhaps Sherlock could prove his feelings to Aphrodite.

He knelt. “John,” he whispered. “Wake up.” He leaned over John and pressed his lips to John’s. It was an innocent kiss, not a kiss to awaken passion. I felt my heart sinking.

“John,” he said. “I love you.”

John’s eyelids fluttered. He stretched and yawned and opened his eyes. “Sherlock,” he said, and smiled. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock’s ears drooped. “I’m kissing you.”

“What for?”

“I’m endeavouring to arouse passion in you.”

John giggled and sat up. “You git. Why are your ears so long?”

Aphrodite was smiling, superior. “Well, I think we can—”

“No!” Sherlock said. “Surely I deserve more than seven seconds to prove my case.”

“Ha!” said Aphrodite. “You had your chance. He does not choose you.”

“Prove? Choose?” John said, rubbing his eyes. “Sherlock, is it an experiment?”

Sherlock became urgent. “John, I need you to kiss me now. You have more experience in such things. I need you to show me how to kiss someone in a manner which will arouse passion. It’s for a case,” he added.

John shrugged. “Well, if it’s for a case, I guess it’s fine.” He leaned in for the kiss. Their lips met, their arms went around one another, and for several long moments, it was as if they were glued together.

“How was that?” John whispered when they finally came up for air.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed. “I detect evidence of arousal.”

“Me too,” said John. “Do you need more data?”

“I do.”

They kissed again, and it became clear to all of us that passion had been aroused.

Aphrodite sighed and looked at me. “How many doses did you give him?”

I shrugged. “Can we safely say that he has proven his case?”

She pouted. “Sherlock Holmes!” she said petulantly.

He pulled his lips off of John. “I beg your pardon?”

She gave him her most divine glare. “If you ever lose your passion for this man, if you ever lose his affection — which you thoroughly do not deserve — you will disrespect me and all lovers. I will pursue you relentlessly, making him irresistible to every woman and man who sees him.” Rising from her couch, she took her true form, magenta hair and all. “I hope you have learned something from this.”

“I have learned,” he said, “that reason and love keep little company together nowadays.” Sherlock smiled at me. “And Cupid is a knavish lad.”

“Sherlock,” said John. “Can we go home now?” He reached up, fingering the ass ears, and smiled. “So soft,” he murmured.

Sherlock leaned in, kissing John again. “Of course, love. Whatever you wish.” He stood and bowed to Aphrodite. “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. I have observed, but have not seen. Now my eyes are opened. Will you declare me the victor in this contest?”

“I will not be the thief of love,” Aphrodite replied, smiling. She ruffled John’s hair, sending sparkles bouncing off all surfaces in the bower. “Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends.”

John stood and put his arms around Sherlock, who leaned in and kissed him once again. “I’ve had strange dreams,” he said. “I can’t tell. Am I asleep?”

“This is real,” Sherlock said. “We are both awake, and in love.”

“Then let’s go home and to bed,” John said, smiling. “I want you— and your ears— to myself. I’ll follow thee.”

Holding hands, smiling at one another, they wandered from the bower. I saw a few mortals turn, noticing the sparkles falling from John, but every one smiled, knowing that Love was here and could not be denied.

I turned, looking at Sally as if for the first time. She had a fond smile on her face. “Adorable,” she breathed. “Such a lovely couple.”

“It was by no means secure,” I said, putting an arm around her.

She turned, smiling coyly. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I think,” I said, “that Sherlock and John, Greg and Molly, even Mycroft and Anthea, and many other couples will feel Love’s influence tonight. If that is chemistry, then chemistry is just another name for Love. And I think that you have finally solved Sherlock Holmes. He is not immune to Love, as I thought. You did what I could not.” I leaned towards her, brushed my lips against hers. “Sally, no one has ever touched the heart of Cupid, but now I fear that I have lost my heart to you.”

She grinned broadly. “The age of unfettered love is here. Come on, you git.”

Our kiss was long and deep.The course of true love would, for one night at least, run smooth. We made our exit.

* * *

_If we shadows have offended,_

_Think but this, and all is mended—_

_That you have but slumbered here_

_While these visions did appear._

_And this weak and idle theme,_

_No more yielding but a dream,_

_Gentles, do not reprehend._

_If you pardon, we will mend._

_And, as I am an honest Puck,_

_If we have unearnèd luck_

_Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,_

_We will make amends ere long._

_Else the Puck a liar call._

_So good night unto you all._

_Give me your hands if we be friends,_

_And Robin shall restore amends._

_—_ Shakespeare _, A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , Act 5, Scene 1


End file.
